


Silent

by shnuffeluv



Series: Danger Gays: The Extras [14]
Category: Cartoon Therapy (Web Series), Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: ABA 'Therapy', Autism, Autistic Deceit Sanders, Cussing, Family Drama, Forced Eye Contact, Gen, Misunderstandings, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-11-02 02:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20583725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/shnuffeluv
Summary: It's Dee's first day of middle school, and he gets pulled out of his reading period to sit with some lady he doesn't know, for reasons he hasn't been told. He's a little worried, and his worry only grows when he's told he has to look her in the eye...





	Silent

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I know this could probably fit into Dee's sequel somewhere, but considering how long it was, I thought it was better off as a one shot. Before you read, know that: Dee has a potty mouth, there's definitely some sketchy "therapy" techniques at play here, and there's some miscommunication which does get cleared up in this one shot. Comment moderation is on because I'm a little worried about negative reception to this, but I still appreciate every positive comment that comes my way!

Dee sat in the chair they had told him to sit in, looking around the room somewhat warily. He didn't know what was going on, and he absolutely hated it. No one had told him he'd be doing this, it wasn't on his middle school class schedule! He was eleven, why were people treating him like a child? Or...at least...you know, more of a child than normal? Dee knew that sometimes people would talk down to him because he was a kid, or because he was autistic. The whole thing was made more bearable because Dad and Ami were usually there to correct the other person, and they always treated him like his own person. Maybe not an adult, yet, because he wasn't an adult, but they respected his...what was the word they used...autonomy! Yeah, that was it. They respected his bodily autonomy. Here, though, no one seemed to respect it.

When he had been taken out of his reading class, the woman moving him kept a hand pressed between his shoulder blades the entire time, and wouldn’t stop, even when he asked, and his translator had relayed what he had signed. Then, to make matters worse, his translator had been sent away from the room. Now, Dee _could_ talk, and he sometimes didn’t sound robotic or sarcastic, but that was never a guarantee, and the school system had agreed with Dad and Ami that having a translator was easier for everyone involved.

He had thought that was the case, at any rate. It looked like middle school had a nasty surprise or two in store for him. The woman from before finally stopped talking with another adult and sat across the table from him. “Deagan,” she said, and yep, Dee hated her already, “Please look at me. We’re going to have a little chat.”

Dee kept his eyes trained on the table. He was too anxious to even pretend to have eye contact. He was sitting on his hands so that he sent the silent message he wasn’t going to talk, in any form, but he wasn’t sure if his message was getting across.

“Deagan,” the woman’s voice was stern. “Look at me.”

Dee subtly shook his head, eyes squeezed shut tight. He hated whatever this was already.

The woman grabbed his chin and forcibly moved it so he had to stare straight ahead if he were to open his eyes. “Deagan, open your eyes,” she said. “This is part of your grade in this class. You need to look at me.”

Dee opened his eyes, but looked down towards the table. The woman tapped against his jawline with her fingers, and he flinched. Never before had he experienced some sort of torture like this. That movement felt like sensory hell was just over the horizon.

“Deagan, look at me,” the woman instructed.

Her grip was too strong to have him shake his head again, so he looked at the bottom of her nose.

The woman sighed. “In the _eyes,_ Deagan, like any regular person would.”

Dee couldn’t move. The woman had her hand still clamped over his jaw, and he couldn’t close his eyes without getting that horrible tapping again.

The woman tapped his jaw anyway for not responding soon enough. “In the _eyes,_ Deagan,” she prompted.

Dee tried to use one of his hands to get the woman’s grip off him, but it wasn’t doing any good. And his villain gloves weren’t keeping him calm, and the woman was tapping him harder now, presumably to try and get him to stop struggling, and his breathing was picking up, and he was pretty sure this is what Virgil called a “panic attack.” He continued to try and get the woman to stop touching him, until her other hand darted out and forced his own hand on the table. He tried to pull away but she wasn’t giving an inch. Well, he didn’t want to give an inch either! Why was he being forced to do this, anyway?

“Deagan, I know you didn’t go through ABA when you were in elementary school, but you’ll learn soon enough that it’s easier to _listen_ to the _adults_ here than to fight,” the woman said.

Dee’s blood turned to ice. ABA...that was the thing that Dad and Ami had talked about in hushed conversations when they thought Dee couldn’t hear. And when he had revealed he had heard and asked what it was, Dad _growled_ and called it “a despicable form of backwards ‘therapy,’” while Ami went over what its principles were. Applied Behavioral Analysis. Basically, training him like a dog to act allistic. He started to shake. He had seen what masking Logan had done even without ABA, and the damage it had done to his self-worth before Dad and Ami taught him otherwise. A whimper left his mouth without his permission.

The woman tapped at his jaw again and he tried to focus on anything else. Snake facts, Pokémon, anything to get his mind off what was happening here. But the tapping was insistent, and Dee was already so overwhelmed by being dropped in this room without warning, that he couldn’t focus on it properly. He hissed, which succeeded in getting the woman’s grip to go lax for a split second, and he ripped her hand off his face.

He moved his chair as far back as it would go, up against the wall. The woman was between him and the exit, and he knew he had no chance of getting out that way. He stood from the chair and started to pace. He knew he couldn’t break bulletproof glass, so he couldn’t get through the windows. He couldn’t fight his way out of here, and he certainly couldn’t talk his way out of it. He was well and truly stuck. His hands shook and he bounced up and down on his toes, flapping his hands down but only loosely bringing them back up, nothing like his favorite happy stim. He was crying, he knew, closer to sobbing, but that wasn’t important right now. He had to get _out of here!_

The woman came over and picked him up like a sack of potatoes and he shrieked in alarm, trying to squirm out of her grip, but was unsuccessful. He was unceremoniously plopped down in a chair facing a corner and the woman forced his chin over again. “Deagan, look me in the eyes.”

“Go to hell,” Dee signed.

The woman snarled and smacked his hand down. “Until you decide to behave, you will be sitting in this corner. Silently. No moving your hands around, no signing, no swinging your feet. When you’re ready to look me in the eyes, you and I can go back to the table and continue working. Oh, and before I forget,” she ripped Dee’s gloves off his hands and he squawked at the sudden movement, instantly reaching for them again. “You don’t _need_ to have these gloves on, seeing as it’s August and the room is warm on its own. I’ll be keeping these.”

Dee was shaking all over as the woman left with his one source of comfort. He was actually sobbing now, and he wished that Virgil or Pat were here, because they’d teach this woman a thing or two. But they were in the eighth grade, they had a different schedule than him, right down to when they had lunch. He pulled his knees into his chest and there was the sharp trill of a whistle. “Deagan, keep your feet on the floor!” the woman demanded.

He put them back down and brought his hands to his chest as he silently sobbed. He wanted Dad, and Ami, and Roman, and Patton and Virgil. But most of all, he wanted Logan, who could understand exactly why this was so terrible.

Dee would occasionally shift in his seat or find himself moving without thinking about it, and every time, there was that sharp whistle. Eventually, he forced himself to sit stock still like a statue, trying to force every thought out of his head so he couldn’t get happy until that whistle came around again.

After a time, the woman put a hand on his shoulder, and Dee nearly spiralled into another panic attack. He couldn’t even hear her coming over, this wasn’t fair! “Thank you for sitting still, Deagan. We’re going to move back over to the table now, okay?”

He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He stood, walking over to the table, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. He sat down at the table, keeping his hands in his lap and forcing his breathing to remain even. If he didn’t, who knew what the woman would do next?

“Deagan,” the woman prompted, and Dee forced himself to meet her gaze for half a second, before his eyes moved to a spot just behind her ears. “Come on, now, you can look at me longer than _that.”_

Dee swallowed, looking back at her, though he wasn’t entirely sure if she was looking back, his vision too blurred with tears to properly see.

“Good job, Deagan,” the woman praised, but Dee felt absolutely rotten for her being happy with him. “Now, we need to get you used to touching things without having those silly gloves on.”

Oh, please, God, no. Dee blinked only to find a mini blackboard in front of him, as well as chalk. He cringed. He hadn’t understood Logan’s aversion to chalk at first, until he had to write on the blackboard at school and he couldn’t wash his hands free of the residue, and the blackboard felt absolutely awful. Gingerly, he pushed them away.

The woman gave him a warning look. “Deagan, I have permission from the principal to keep you here after your reading period. I really don’t think that you would like to be here, sitting in the corner, for the rest of the day.”

Dee stayed silent. He was terrified, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t touch those items without feeling completely _wrong_ about it. But he didn’t want to spend more time in the corner, either.

“Deagan, you’re overreacting. These things are _harmless,_ and you see them in every school you go to!” the woman insisted.

Dee looked at the table in front of him, and in one fluid motion, flipped it as he stood and ran. He got ten feet into the hallway before he was pinned to the floor, but he got what he wanted: the security guard who had caught him dragged him to the principal’s office, instead of back to that horrible room.

When he got to the principal’s office, the woman looked down at him with a disappointed face. “The first day of school, and already you’re sent here,” she said. “Are you planning on taking permanent residence in the office, Deagan?”

Dee sat there and said nothing. He knew how to manipulate the system, and he knew if he didn’t say anything she’d have to call his parents.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” the principal sighed. “Fine. We’ll see if you talk when your fathers are brought in.”

Relief flooded Dee’s system. He made sure to widen his eyes and look suitably scared, as he was in the far more comfortable chair in the principal’s office.

“I imagine they’ll be disappointed in you when they find out that you’ve been fighting the therapy they enrolled you in.”

And as soon as the relief was there, it was gone again. “What?” he whispered.

“Oh, so you _can_ speak,” the principal said. “Yes, your fathers enrolled you in that therapy that you were misbehaving in. I can only imagine their outrage when they hear that you _flipped a table_ onto one of our therapists.”

The blood was roaring through Dee’s ears as he was manhandled out of the back office and was instructed to sit in the front with the secretaries, who were both decidedly unimpressed with him. Why had Dad and Ami enrolled him in that, if they were so against it? _Dad was against it,_ his mind helpfully supplied. _Ami just told you what it was._

Could that have been what their arguments had been about? Debating whether or not to put Dee in ABA? Had Ami advocated for it? Had Ami _won?_ He didn’t want to believe it. Ami was the one who knew his sensory issues best, who worked the hardest to pick up sign language so that when Dad wasn’t around, someone could translate. And yet...someone had to enroll him in that. Someone had to green-light it. Could Ami have gotten sick of Dee being so sensitive and decided that enough was enough?

Dee didn’t know if he was spiralling or not, but he knew that he’d rather have Dad be here than Ami at this point. The woman from before came in with his stuff, nostrils flared. She stared to lecture him, telling him to get his feet off the chair, to stop rocking, that he was supposed to act like a _normal_ child, and after what had to be twenty minutes of this woman droning on and on about how he was “supposed” to be, he had enough. He snatched his backpack from her hands and yelled, “Bite me!” he sifted through his things only to find that the gloves weren’t there. “Where are my gloves?!” he demanded.

“You don’t get those gloves after misbehaving the way you did,” the woman said.

Dee hissed. “Bitch! I need my _fucking_ gloves!”

“Hey!”

Dee scowled as Ami came over. “Dee, that is _not_ how we talk to anyone, but _especially_ not to authority figures.”

The woman gave a victorious smile and Dee curled in on his stuff in the chair, not even acknowledging Ami. “Thank you, Mister Picani,” she said.

Ami just nodded and said, “Who are you? I don’t believe Patton or Virgil had you as a teacher before.”

“Oh, I’m not a teacher, I’m the head therapist and counselor here,” the woman said, voice dripping with false sweetness and Dee rolled his eyes. “Deagan and I were having a discussion earlier when he lashed out and tried to run out of the school. We had no choice but to bring him here and call you in.”

“Why would you be talking to my son the first day of school?” Ami asked.

“We know that going from elementary school to middle school can be quite the adjustment,” the woman said. “We were trying to help Deagan adjust to his new environment when he appeared to be struggling.”

“Oh, yeah, because me wearing gloves and flapping my hands _totally_ means I’m not well-adjusted. Sure, Karen,” Dee snarled.

“Dee, not the time,” Ami warned.

“I don’t want to talk to you, I want to talk to Dad,” Dee hissed.

“Dad was in the middle of a therapy session, Dee, you’re stuck with me,” Ami said. “But he would say the same thing I’m saying. You do not cuss at authority figures, and you _certainly_ don’t interrupt them or belittle them.”

Dee glowered.

Ami stared him down. “Dee, apologize.”

“No,” Dee bit.

“Dee, this is not up for debate. Apologize!” Ami insisted.

“You know what? _You_ can bite me too!” Dee exclaimed. “I’m not talking to you anymore. I’ll wait for Dad, thanks.”

Ami turned red and pulled out his phone. “Fine,” he said. “You want to talk to Dad? I’ll call him. You’re free to explain to him why you think that your behavior is acceptable.”

One lengthy text later, no doubt detailing everything Dee did, Ami answered his ringing phone and said, “You’re on speaker, Emile.”

_“Dee,”_ Dad said, and he sounded so disappointed that it made Dee’s heart ache. _“I know that middle school is rough, but you can’t do what you did today. For any reason.”_

“For any reason,” Dee repeated hollowly. “Okay. I didn’t want to think you were on their side, but you are. Great. Fantastic. I guess you want me to get over my sensory issues, and mask better than even Logan did when you guys first met him, and stop signing, and figure out tone, and make eye contact even when I’m having a _fucking panic attack!”_ Dee was shaking as he leapt to his feet, and he spoke over Dad and Ami when they tried to tell him to watch his language. “No! I’m not going to watch my _fucking language_ around people who don’t respect me! And clearly, you two don’t. Whatsoever. Because if you respected me, you wouldn’t have put me in that _fucking therapy program!_ I get that you’re sick of me being the way I am, and that you want me to stop being autistic! I get it! But I _can’t!_ And no amount of _Applied fucking Behavioral Analysis_ is going to change that!”

Ami was white as a sheet by the time Dee was finished with his rant. Dee was crying hard enough he was worried he was gonna throw up, and he was rocking heel to toe, heel to toe, just in an attempt to distract himself. The woman was glaring at him. “Deagan, stop that,” she said.

Dee choked on his words, and he couldn’t even tell her no. He shook his head. The woman put a hand on his shoulder and forcibly held him still and he cried harder. “Keep your damn hands _off my son!”_ Ami exclaimed, ripping the woman away from Dee.

_“Remy, what’s going on?!”_ Dad asked.

“This ‘therapist’ is trying to keep Dee from stimming, and honestly I’m surprised he hasn’t started—” one of the secretaries tried to pull Dee away and he let out an ear-piercing shriek. “—Screaming.”

_“Give the phone to Dee,”_ Dad said. _“You handle the adults, I’ll help him.”_

Ami passed the phone over and the second he removed the secretary from Dee’s shoulder, Dee sank to the floor, feeling dizzy and exhausted and miserable. _“Okay, Dee, you know what we’re going to do, right? Breathing. Four-seven-eight. Ready? In, two, three, four...”_

Dee followed the instructions as best as he could in the middle of a panic attack, and when he finally felt like he could breathe again, maybe speak if he weren’t completely nonverbal at this point, he sighed. He tapped the phone’s speaker twice in a silent _Thank you._

_“It’s no problem, Dee. Is Ami still busy with the adults or can you pass the phone back to him?”_

Dee looked up and found Ami shielding Dee protectively, glaring but silent. He passed the phone back. “Hi, honey,” Ami said.

_“Hi,”_ Dad said. _“I’ll be there in fifteen, provided traffic’s good. I think this is one problem we need to tackle together.”_

“You want to hold off on the murder charges, you mean,” Ami said casually, but his voice held a sharp edge to it that had Dee worried about what might come next.

_“Pretty much,”_ Dad said. _“See you then.”_

“See you,” Ami said, hanging up the phone. He turned to the therapist. “Now, I assume you’re the one who took Dee’s gloves away from him?”

“He needs to—”

“—He doesn’t need to get adjusted to _any_ texture he can’t tolerate. Those gloves are his comfort object. I’d appreciate if you’d return them.” It wasn’t a request.

The therapist scurried out of the office, and Ami turned to the secretary. “I’d appreciate it if you went back to your job. It’s not your responsibility to handle Dee, it’s mine, and you hurt him while trying to help, which isn’t your fault, but I’m not in a very good mood, so I’d appreciate it if you kept away from Dee for now.”

The secretary nodded and went back to work, and Ami turned to Dee, who flinched as Ami crouched down. “Are you okay?” Ami asked softly.

Dee shook his head. He brought his hands close to his chest and resisted the urge to just run far away, running to anywhere but here. His breathing was okay, he guessed, but everything else felt loud, bright, and wrong, and no amount of Ami or Dad reassuring him would make him feel better, not this time. “The principal said that you and Dad signed me up for ABA,” Dee signed. “I knew Dad didn’t like it, and I thought you convinced him to put me in it. Sorry for the meltdown.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for when it comes to meltdowns,” Ami said sternly. “Now, your language is another issue. One that we can talk about when you feel better. Sound good?”

Dee cracked a smile and nodded. “I can’t believe I’m glad to be in trouble for that.”

Ami laughed. “Me neither,” he said. “But I guess it’s a little sense of normal in this situation.”

Dad burst into the office and immediately rushed over to them. “Are you two okay?” he asked.

Dee sniffled and nodded. “Just tired,” he signed.

“Are hugs okay?” Dad asked.

Dee nodded and Ami and Dad both hugged him, and he hugged them back. Neither of his parents would want him to be in ABA, he realized. Not if they were still letting him sign, and asking for hugs, and making sure he had his autonomy. But that meant... “The principal lied. She said you signed me up for ABA,” Dee signed.

Dad took a deep breath. “I am going. To kill her.”

“Same,” Ami said. “Dee gets his gloves back, and then we’re gonna destroy her.”

“They took your gloves?” Dad asked Dee.

Dee nodded, feeling a little sick. “They wanted me to touch a chalkboard,” he signed. “Without my gloves.”

“Okay, where is this sorry excuse of a therapist, I need to have a word with her,” Dad growled.

She walked in, and Remy nodded to her. “That’s her,” he said.

Dad stood and snatched the gloves from her hands, passing them back to Dee. “So, you’re the one who tried to torture my son today?” he asked, looking her up and down.

“Who are you?” she scoffed. “Surely, you don’t know anything about therapy practices and their benefits.”

“Actually, I’ve been a licensed therapist for about twenty years,” Dad said, voice cheery and sweet. “And I know _exactly_ what kind of harmful effects ABA has on children. I’ve seen adults who had to go through it and who are still traumatized by it.”

The woman sputtered. “Where are your credentials?” she asked. “Because I can guarantee you, ABA isn’t harmful—”

Dad laughed, before his voice dropped into his deadly range. “You finish that sentence and I’ll make sure _your_ credentials are stripped away. If the last name Picani rings a bell to you, _yes,_ I’m _that_ Emile Picani, and _yes,_ I can and _will_ report you if necessary.”

The woman sputtered. “I didn’t—”

“—Think? No, I imagine you don’t,” Dad growled. “Stay away from my son.”

The principal walked out at that moment, and said, “Now, Mister Picani, that’s hardly—”

“It’s Doctor,” Dad said icily, turning to her. “Has been for years. Now, I usually let people get away with it, because they typically don’t know or they’re kids. But I have a PhD and not a lot of patience or time, so to you it’s Doctor.”

The principal sighed. “Fine. Doctor and Mister Picani. Are you going to even listen to what your son did?”

“From what I can understand it appears he had a rather violent meltdown after being forced into behaviors that have proven harmful for him,” Dad said. “Not that I blame him in the slightest. ABA is torture wrapped up in nice gift wrap to make it seem a little less ugly. But I know what it is, I know what it does to people. And I _know_ my husband and I told you _under no uncertain terms_ that Dee wasn’t going to be put through it.”

“He never went through it in elementary school—”

“—Because he _doesn’t need it,”_ Dad growled. “I will take this to the school board if I have to. You _tortured_ my son.”

The principal glared at Dad, but Dad glared right back. Ami spoke up, “Considering your behavior today, I’m surprised that you’re still the principal here. My husband may not be ready to take this to the school board, but the second my son said ABA, I _knew_ that something was going on. And the fact that you put him there, without _our explicit consent,_ no, _knowing we were against it,_ I’d be surprised if you still have a job by the time I’m done with you.”

The principal sighed. “I understand that you may be reluctant to pursue this, but Deagan can benefit from—”

“No,” Dad said. “He is not going into ABA or any other therapy unless he needs it, which he doesn’t. He’s intelligent, he’s incredibly talented, he just needs people to be straightforward with him. That is not something that should be held against him.”

The principal sighed. “He still needs to be held accountable for his behavior.”

“Agreed,” Dad said. “Which is why we’ll be taking him home, making sure that he is okay, and feels safe, at which point we will explain why he shouldn’t hurt people. Unless, of course, you want to force him to go back to class, and possibly risk him having another meltdown from getting overstimulated.”

The principal huffed. “You can take him home,” she said. “He’s suspended for three days for his behavior.”

Ami laughed and helped Dee to stand, grabbing his stuff. “Oh, I hope you enjoy your last days as principal here,” he chirped. “Because you’re not getting away with this.”

And with that, the three of them left the school. Dee’s legs felt like jelly. “Hey, Dee, would you want a shake from the shop on our way home?” Ami asked.

“Feel kinda queasy,” Dee signed.

“All right, maybe another time,” Ami said easily. “Are you okay?”

“Not yet. But I will be,” Dee signed. “I have you and Dad to lean on if I need to.”

“We’ll always be here for you, Dee,” Ami assured. “Whether you want us there or not, we’ll always be a part of your safety net.”

And even though Dee was verbally silent, his hands were loud and proud as he happy flapped at the support.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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